


Plot Devices

by Calais_Reno



Series: Author [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angry John, Assassins, Bombs, Brainstorming, Cocaine, Fix-It of Sorts, Happy Ending, John would never do that, M/M, Mary is a plot device, Mary is a problem, Nodus Tollens, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Plot Fairies, Sad John, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, all hypothetical of course, do not copy to another site, very little angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24571420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: A nodus tollens moment: Sherlock realises that the plot of his life doesn't make any sense. He brainstorms. Season 3-4 Fixit. Takes place the morning after the scene at the Landmark."This is the problem: John has found a woman as clever as me, but much nicer... There are many ways this can go. Eleven possibilities, at least."
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Author [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1365580
Comments: 31
Kudos: 97
Collections: Chelle's Fic Recommendations





	Plot Devices

I wake the morning after, remembering why my lip has a line of dried blood on it, why my neck feels like someone tried to strangle me, why my back hurts. I remember the feel of John’s body as we hit the floor, his face a mask of rage, his hands tightening around my neck.

It’s a bizarre, nightmare version of a fantasy I have often entertained: John on top of me, his arms around me, pulling our faces together in a passionate kiss.

John is a man of furious extremes, gentle in healing, violent in anger. I’ve always imagined that he would be a fierce and zealous lover.

John is not mine now, though. If there had ever been a possibility that we could be lovers, that is gone. I remember the ring box on the table; by now that ring is surely on the woman’s finger. There will be months of planning, but in the end, John will be standing next to her in a tuxedo, and he will say _till death do us part._

I have already complicated what should have been a joyous reunion. The more I explained, the worse it got. _So just your brother, and Molly Hooper, and a hundred tramps… One word, Sherlock. That’s all I would have needed…_

John used to translate the nuances of human interaction for me, warning me when I was behaving badly _._ But John isn’t here to explain what went wrong. The woman seems to understand, and she said she would _talk him around._ Even so, John Watson is a stubborn man, and if (when) he comes around, that doesn’t mean he will have forgiven me.

I don’t know how to solve this, how to fix the mess I’ve made. I settle into my seat with a cup of tea and think. There are many ways this can go. Eleven possibilities, at least.

Scenario Number One: The simplest solution is often the best. I might simply text John, as I have so many times. _I’m sorry._ No more explanations, no excuses. Just a simple apology: _I’m sorry. I was wrong._

Maybe things are beyond simple apologies, however. And, as John sometimes used to point out, a text isn’t a substitute for face-to-face communication. He will ignore my texts until he’s calmed down. And then it will be too late. The woman will _talk him round,_ but she will also make sure he hasn’t changed his mind about that ring.

Scenario Number Two: I can concede that I have lost, accept this woman. _Would it be so bad if John married?_ Maybe he would be happy, and if I really love him, I should want happiness for him, even if it doesn’t make me happy.

The disadvantages of this are many, mostly for me. I might spend the rest of my life regretting it, and the more time that goes by, the less likely that I will be able to fix this. John will marry and we will drift apart, eventually not seeing one another at all.

I imagine John awkwardly stopping by Baker Street, the two of us with nothing to say to one another. I imagine the last case we will work together. John will have children by then, and they will take a lot of his time. Mary will be a good wife, and he will settle into a life where danger isn’t a drug and keeping me out of trouble isn’t his problem.

I imagine the last Christmas card. Not a call, not even an email. Just a standard _Happy Holidays_ greeting card signed _The Watsons,_ written in Mary’s handwriting.

Will he be happy? Impossible to predict.

My own unhappiness I can predict— unerringly. I am a selfish man and sharing John Watson will make me unhappy. Do I risk that for the mere _chance_ that he might be happy?

If only I had taken a risk sooner, before Moriarty complicated things. Even then, he saw what neither of us had seen. He kidnapped John and put him in a Semtex vest, because he understood what John meant to me.

I could have told him then: _I can’t lose you. You’re everything to me. I love you._

 _What idiots_ , both of us.

I wake up later on the sofa, my hair stuck to the cut on my forehead, the one I meant to put a plaster on when I got home.

Home. 221B Baker Street.

But it isn’t home, because John isn’t here.

In the loo, I splash my face with cold water, pull strands of hair out of the scab forming above my right eyebrow (John always leads with a left hook) and search for the antiseptic in the cabinet behind the mirror.

Everything in the flat is wrong, my clothing in bags, my possessions in boxes. John lived here for a few weeks _after_ , Mycroft said. He couldn’t stay, though (too many memories) and Mrs Hudson had begun packing things up, assuming that she’d have to let the flat out to someone new. No one was to know I would be coming back.

In hindsight, I wish I’d said something to John. It was a risk, though, and Mycroft had calculated that the chances of John _letting the cat out of the bag_ were greater than ten percent. John would feel sorry for Mrs Hudson, and something would slip. He might trust Molly as well, and then she would admit what she’d done. And it must be said that John is a terrible actor. Lestrade would notice and then John wouldn’t be able to help himself.

No good looking back, though.

Scenario Number Three: Drugs.

I find the morocco case and look at the needle for a long time. Since meeting John, I’ve been clean. He wouldn’t tolerate it. I hold the needle in my hand and think: drugs could bring John Watson home. He has a strong caretaker impulse that has often led him to rescue me.

He will still be angry, though.

I might go to hell for John, but there is no certainty that he will rescue me this time.

Still, drugs have other advantages. And since I have the case out…

Scenario Number Four: I could save John again.

John reads all those awful books, the ones with spies in them. Together we have watched too many Bond movies with scenarios that defy reality. This is how John thinks, his romanticised version of reality.

John, shot with a tranquilliser dart, bound and gagged, in danger. _Who did this?_ It doesn’t really matter. There are clues, maybe a skip code. Though skip code is incredibly hard to write, John would appreciate a detail like that.

It’s Bonfire Night and I’m racing to the rescue, pulling John free, removing the gag. John looks up, and he’s so relieved to see me that there are tears in his eyes.

Cue emotional catharsis. He reaches for me, and says—

 _Mary._ The woman wearing his ring. He reaches— not for me, but for Mary, who was there for him, who patiently waited while I ruined his proposal, who cheerfully told me that she could _talk him round._

 _Get out of my head_ , I tell her. _I know what you are_.

This is the problem: John has found a woman as clever as me, but much nicer.

Scenario Number Five: Get John involved in a case.

“London is in danger, John. There’s an imminent terrorist attack and I need your help.”

When I say this, John won’t be able to resist. He puts aside his petty anger and follows me, and it’s like the good old days… the two of us against the world.

Except John is still prickly. He needs more inducement to get involved. Danger of a higher degree than we have ever faced.

A bomb under the Palace of Westminster, then. It’s the Fifth of November, and Parliament is meeting to consider a terrorism bill. Ironically, a terrorist is planning to blow them up.

A bit far-fetched perhaps, but John will accept it, just as he accepts the plots of those ridiculous movies. And I will be clever, and John will say, _amazing_ and _brilliant._

There’s a bomb. Of course there is. It’s a movie, not real life. A countdown is ticking, the seconds are running out, and there’s no off switch. We’re going to die.

And John says, _You were the best and the wisest man ... that I have ever known. Yes, of course I forgive you. Of course. I love you, Sherlock…_

And this is how it should end, an embrace as we face death together. John is sad, recognising what he is about to lose, knowing what we might have had if only— and he says such sweet things to me because he really cares—

And when I show him the OFF switch (there’s always an OFF switch), John is amazed, and he says—

_I’m definitely gonna kill you!_

Once again, I am undone by my own cleverness.

Scenario Number Six: I might make John believe Mary is evil.

Let’s assume John has picked an assassin to marry. (Not completely unlikely, given his love of danger.)

Perhaps someone is blackmailing her. (What can she expect? She’s an assassin.) I will have to find out something shady about her past, and think of a way to reveal it to John. A dramatic confrontation in an empty building sounds about right. She will be angry that I’ve learned who she really is, angrier still because I’ve told John. Maybe she will be angry enough to shoot me.

Yes, of course. She does. She shoots me and I’m dying. I imagine myself bleeding out and John at my side, saying _stay with me, Sherlock. Please, don’t die… I love you…_

It’s gratifying to think that John will realise he loves me when I am dying, but if I am to benefit from this scenario, I will have to survive. I might have emergency surgery, just barely pulling through. Dramatic possibilities there, for sure.

But it’s no good. Even if I do survive, unless I kill Mary, she is still part of the problem.

I boil water and make more tea, sit and think while it grows cold.

Perhaps this is a problem requiring something I don’t have. I am all about logic and reason, but that approach hasn’t worked so far. Not likely that it would work on the man who head-butted me last night.

It is a fact that I faked my death and disappeared for two years _for John._ John might have died if I hadn’t fallen. I saved his life.

John doesn’t need logic to understand this; he needs an emotional catharsis for his negative feelings. That might take a while.

Scenario Number Seven: John marries the assassin and I wait for her to die, as she inevitably will. Once that happens, I can play the supportive friend to him, the grieving spouse.

I’ve played harder roles before. I’ll plan their wedding, even write the music for their first dance as a couple. I’ll fold the fucking serviettes—

It’s while they’re dancing that I put together the clues. The wine tastes awful, she says, and I remember she her saying she was nauseous that morning. All the signs are there.

 _No babies._ Mentally, I draw a line through Scenario Number Seven.

Scenario Number Eight: John marries her, still an assassin, no baby. I wait for her to die.

She will have to die in a way that lets John off the hook for marrying her and leaves me with clean hands. She is an assassin, albeit retired, and it is not out of the realm of possibility that an old colleague would think he’s been double-crossed and hunt her down.

She will leave behind John and the baby (okay, there can be a baby in this scenario, if only to add to the poignancy of the situation) and run off so John won’t be targeted by unknown bad guys.

This scenario will involve some globe-trotting as we hunt her down, which John will enjoy.

But ultimately, John will go back to Mary as long as she is around, so Mary has to die. And she will die in the noblest way possible: she will jump in front of a bullet to save my life. Even though this is physically impossible, she will somehow anticipate the bullet and move quickly enough to—

Doesn’t matter. She dies in his arms, and he turns to me and says, “Don’t you dare. You made a vow. You _swore_ it.”

I cross off Scenario Number Eight.

Scenario Number Nine: Mary is dead. There doesn’t seem to be any way to kill her that doesn’t make John angry at me. So Angry John it is. I might as well make this one about drugs.

And I already know how that one ends, so…

Scenario Number Ten: The Secret Sister.

I must be getting desperate now if I’m thinking a secret sister is a good idea.Almost as bad as a secret twin. Desperation is making me resort to cliches. Or maybe it’s the drugs talking.

(She needs a strange name that will, at the same time, be menacing. Eurus, perhaps. People will keep saying things about the East Wind, and they won’t even know that they’re foreshadowing her appearance.)

Side note: since we have never mentioned her until now, I must have some oddly specific form of amnesia. It should involve some childhood trauma. I remember how upset I was when my dog Redbeard died. I was five, I think. Perhaps Redbeard wasn’t a dog, but a person. Another secret sibling? I make a note to think about this.

Mycroft knows all about her, of course, because he is Mycroft. Eurus is a psychopath, a murderer, and he has decided that she must be kept locked up. Except when she inexplicably escapes and causes mischief. And later returns without leaving any sign that she’s been gone.

My secret sister shoots John with a tranquilliser gun, kidnaps me and Mycroft. Something like that. We travel to an island where the government (or someone) has built a top secret mental institution which has only one inmate: my insanely brilliant and dangerous sister.

She puts us through a bizarre series of trials with no clear purpose, all the while pretending to be a little girl on an airplane full of passengers who have passed out. This is meant to be some kind of metaphor. (Don’t ask; I’m on a roll here.)

How Eurus accomplishes all of this won’t need any explanation. She is so intelligent that she apparently has the ability to mesmerise people just by talking to them, move people from island prisons to somewhere in Sussex where they will wake up on my family’s old country estate (Do we have a country estate? Is it in Sussex? Mycroft will know.)

I solve a mystery involving tombstones which helps me save John, who is almost drowning, chained in a well where my best friend from childhood— who used to play pirates with me and whose pirate name was Redbeard— also drowned, killed by my five-year-old sister. Wrapped a shock blanket, he’ll tell me _it is what it is_. And I’ll know that he loves me.

Eurus will have to be locked up again once I’ve rescued John, though I might visit her now that I know about her. We can play violin together. She won’t be any less insane, but it will make me feel better that I didn’t remember her. And, as a bonus, my parents will be mad at Mycroft.

John will talk to Ghost Mary because he hasn’t quite resolved that whole thing yet, and she will give her blessing because now that she is dead, she can hardly object to her husband having sex with his best friend.

The cocaine is wearing off, and none of this even makes sense. I light a match, burn Scenario Number Ten to ashes.

Two cups of tea having gone cold, I make another attempt. Whilst I am waiting for the water to boil again, there is a knock on my door.

Joyfully I fling it open, expecting to see John, who will no longer be Angry John, but Sad John who wants to apologise for beating me up.

“Mycroft,” I say when I see who it is. “Be so kind as to fuck off.”

“Nice to see you too, dear brother,” he replies.

“What do you want?”

He looks contrite, which immediately tells me that he’s done something I won’t like.

“I have a confession to make.” He seats himself in my chair.

I finish making my tea. I do not ask him whether he wants a cup. He no doubt knows all about the fiasco at the Landmark last night, and I definitely don’t want him telling me _I warned you._

“Sherlock, I’m not sure how to explain this to you,” he says.

“Try me. You may think me an idiot, but I believe I can keep up. Just say it.”

“Very well. Sherlock, I am not really your brother.”

“I see.” I blow on my tea, which is still too hot to drink. There are probably biscuits somewhere in the cupboard, but if I find them, Mycroft will eat most of them. “What makes you think so?”

“I don’t _think_ it. I _know_ it. I am not your brother.”

“Good. Then you won’t mind if I ask you to fuck off again.”

“I am not going to _fuck off,_ as you poetically put it. Since you won’t ask sensible questions, I will ask them for you. Think, Sherlock. If I’m not your brother, who am I?”

“Don’t care. I have other things on my mind, and the sooner you go, the sooner I can sort them out.” _Scenario Number Eleven,_ I think. _I’ll have amnesia... or maybe John will…_

“I believe I can help you. I am, in fact, a person who has a lot of power.”

“Yes, yes. So you’ve often reminded me. How is the British Government going to help me?”

“I am not the British Government. I work for a top-secret division of the BBC. I am what you might call a plot fairy.”

I sip my tea, which has suddenly cooled off more than I would like. “Fairy, I can see. Plot fairy, though—?”

“I manage the plot of your life. Any control you imagine you have over this story is an illusion. I provide all the twists and turns, give you cliff-hangers and denouements and an occasional _deus ex machina_.”

“This is, I suppose, why my life makes no sense at the moment,” I say. “You’re doing a ghastly job.”

He looks a bit miffed. “I wouldn’t say that. I brought you back from the dead.”

“You gave my best friend, my potential love interest, a _girlfriend._ How is that doing a good job? I gave my life for him, and he’s going to marry someone else? What kind of plot is that?”

“A long one, drawn out with many angst-filled episodes, so that when you get past all of that, whatever happens will be such a relief that you’ll accept it.”

“And you’re thinking up this nonsense all by yourself?”

“Mostly. I have a silent partner. You can’t talk to him because he’s not part of the plot. But we thought it would be good to warn you, so you’ll know what’s coming.”

“I don’t want to know,” I say. “I just want it fixed. Last night— I suppose you thought that was a very clever twist. Poor Sherlock returns from the dead and gets beaten up by his best friend. John would _not_ do that. I don’t care how many women he gets engaged to, he belongs to me. We both know it. All these women were just distractions, dead ends, while he sorts out his PTSD and his suppressed homosexuality. The plot of our lives is the same: the two of us against the world, the Baker Street Boys solving crimes and drinking tea and having fluffy moments— _not_ John going off to spend the rest of his life yoked to a woman. Marrying him off ruins our dynamic.”

“Only temporarily. We’ve taken your suggestions under consideration—“

“My suggestions?”

“Your _scenarios,_ I believe you called them. Eleven of them. All the ways the plot can go from here on out.”

“But none of them actually work,” I protest. “They’re all rubbish— because you’ve stuck me in a situation with no possible resolution!”

“You’re wrong.” He smiles a bit smugly. “Some of them were quite ingenious. I especially like Mary as a secret assassin. We were actually planning to let her fade into the background, maybe have her make a brief appearance now and then. You’ll call John, tell him _come at once._ And he’ll be ready to go, but will have lost his hat—“

“John doesn’t wear hats.”

“His gun, then. Doesn’t matter. He will lose something, and Mary’s role is to find it for him and send him off on his adventure with you, scolding him fondly about how dangerous it is working with Sherlock Holmes. That’s the only time we will hear from her. Eventually she’ll start calling him James by mistake and go visit her mother even though we’d previously determined that she’s an orphan. He’ll stop going home, just stay at Baker Street all the time. Nobody will mention her name again.”

“We’ll just forget about her?”

“We could imply that she died. John might make a cryptic remark about his _bereavement_. That’s what we’d planned. But your ideas are actually much better. We’re going to use them all.”

“ _All_ of them?” Now I’m realising that Scenario Number Ten should include a scene where I have the option of shooting Mycroft.

He nodded. “In your life, women have been peripheral. There’s Mrs Hudson, but she’s a feisty and eccentric elderly woman, a stock character. Molly’s function is somewhat romantic, but she’s rather pathetic. Her function is to make you seem attractive to women while you ignore them. Sally Donovan is a flat character, an enemy who is not threatening, but never reconciles with you. She’s a running gag, I suppose. Mary Morstan is the ideal character to make the plot of your life less misogynistic. We need to make her as interesting as Moriarty— a smart, sassy villain who is trying to leave the assassin gig behind by marrying a man whose best friend can deduce her past, but won’t say anything to him because he’s secretly so deeply in love with his best friend that he wants him to be happy at all costs. We were thinking she might wear a catsuit in the scene where she shoots you.”

“She’s a villain?”

“Yes and no. Yes, because villains are interesting and sexy. They add spice to the plot. No, because Watson’s going to marry her, and we can’t make her unsympathetic or he’ll look like a complete fool. He can’t know she’s an assassin, and he’ll have to forgive her for shooting you. And for not telling you she was an assassin.”

“The assassin thing was just a silly notion I had— it doesn’t even make sense. And John wouldn’t forgive her if she did that, even if he’d accidentally married her.”

“Don’t forget, he’s still Angry John, who will do things you won’t expect. Anyway, it’s all going to happen quickly, so it doesn’t matter. Before you know it, we’ll all be facing Eurus. She’s going to send a drone to blow up Baker Street.”

“Am I still on drugs?” I ask. “Because this feels like an hallucination.”

“We’re bringing Moriarty back, too.”

“But— he’s dead!”

“So were you.”

“I wasn’t really dead— we explained all of that, didn’t we?”

“There were many theories about how you didn’t die. We couldn’t decide, so we used them all, but never said which one was true. Eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable, you know.”

“But one of them _must_ be true!” I sigh in exasperation. It probably doesn’t matter how it really happened. John said he didn’t care _how,_ he only cared _why._ “And while we’re on the subject, how did I single-handedly take down Moriarty’s entire organisation? One man against the greatest criminal syndicate that ever existed? Don’t we have MI6 people who handle that sort of thing? You could have sent me and John on a holiday somewhere while they sorted it out. They _tortured_ me.”

He makes an unpleasant face. “I’m trying to help you, Sherlock. What would your life be if you spent it going on holidays and having a happy love life? Where is the pathos in that?”

“I don’t care for pathos,” I say. “My life would be— happy.”

There is another knock on the door. Mycroft looks rather surprised for a plot fairy who supposedly has my life outlined for maximum drama and pathos.

I open the door and see John standing there, looking anxious. “Sherlock— oh, God!”

“What is it?” I draw him into the flat.

“I don’t know what happened,” he begins. “I prayed for you not to be dead, and there you were, and I— I wanted to kill you. I hit you, and I don’t even—“ He starts to cry. “I love you, Sherlock, and I hurt you. I couldn’t stop, even when I realised what was happening. It was like I had no control. The man you thought I was, that’s not who I am, Sherlock. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Mycroft mutters. “He’s supposed to be angry. Those lines come much later.”

“You love me?” I say.

He smiles through his tears. “‘Course I do. Always have. I just had to stop thinking I wasn’t gay before I could say it.”

“It’s all right, John,” I murmur, putting my arms around him.

“It’s not all right,” he sobs into my chest.

“Why isn’t he angry?” Mycroft asks.

“It is what it is,” I say, “And whatever it is, it’s a lot better than what the plot fairy had planned.”

He shakes his head. “You’ve forgotten about Mary. She’s a lying, pregnant assassin.”

John raises his head. “She’s an assassin?”

“That was only one idea,” I say. “Not a very good one.”

Mycroft pouts. “We could have made it work.”

“By having her shoot me,” I say. “That’s what you were planning, wasn’t it?”

“She shot you?” Angry John is back. “The wedding is off. I can’t be married to a woman who would shoot my best friend, the person I love most in all the world—”

“But you might marry someone else?” I ask.

He is blushing. It’s adorable. “Well, you’re married to your work.”

I glare pointedly at Mycroft, then return my attention to John. “I don’t even know why I said that. When you said, _unattached, like me,_ what I meant to say was, _Will you be my boyfriend?_ ”

He grins. “And I would have said—“

Not waiting to hear what he would have said (which is obvious), I crash my lips into his and we kiss. It’s glorious. It’s the way episodes are supposed to end.

“No,” says Mycroft. “Absolutely not. This plot is not yours to manipulate. What you’re suggesting is not, and never will be canon.”

“Neither is what you’re suggesting. If you’re talking canon, John and I met in 1881. That is the _ur-canon_ , I believe.”

“Victorian London.” Mycroft looks thoughtful for a moment. “I think we could make that work. We’ll start with Scenario Number Nine— or was it Seven? The one where you take drugs to Save John Watson. In a drug-induced dream, you will be transported back to Victorian England. There will be a case to solve— a dead woman returning to kill her husband…”

“And a network of suffragettes pursuing abusive men,” John adds.

Mycroft beams. “That would take care of the whole misogyny…” He waves his hand vaguely. “That misogyny thing. We won’t even need Eurus. Brilliant.”

“Fine, fine,” I say, chivvying him towards the door. “I can see you’ve got the plot well in hand now.”

“I’ll draft something tonight.” He bows. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

We sit in our armchairs. Watson is regarding me intently. I strike a match and touch it to the bowl of my pipe, puffing until it lights. “I really cannot congratulate you, old man.”

“What are you going on about, Holmes?” He frowns, lighting his own pipe.

“Love is an emotional thing, dear boy.”

“Indeed it is. Which is why I will not be making any matrimonial offers.”

“Miss Morstan?”

“I trust she will not be too disappointed,” he replies, smiling. “I believe I already have a commitment.”

I return his smile. “You’ll write up your account of the case, of course?”

“I will.” He closes his eyes and exhales a cloud of smoke. “You know, Holmes, I sometimes fancy that we are simply characters in a story. Have you ever had that notion?”

“I have,” I reply. “Sometimes I imagine us in another age, one where men have invented machines in which they can travel through the air, devices that let them talk to people at a distance…”

“Like a telegram.”

“Yes, but the telegraph office will be in your pocket, old man. You won’t have a boy ringing your bell and handing you a piece of paper. In fact, we might dispense with paper altogether, save a few trees in doing so.”

He looks horrified. “What about books?”

“We’ll keep them in our pockets as well, my dear. When I want to read your newest story, I will summon it and it will fly through the air to my device.”

“Sounds dangerous. Flying books, that is.” He chuckles. “All this invisible information. No more lockboxes. Who could really feel at home in such a volatile world?”

“I could, I think.” I draw on my pipe, let a cloud of blue-grey smoke surround me. “There might be advantages for men like us. Perhaps we might even marry.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “What an imagination you have, Holmes. I thought _I_ was the storyteller.”

I reach for his hand. “You are, my love. And I have no intention of leaving your story.”


End file.
